


from afar

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag: 2.18 - All In, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: "Lou doesn't know that.  But I do."





	from afar

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the beautiful graphic by asukafujima on Tumblr. Please like and reblog their beautiful work, originally posted [here](http://asukafujima.tumblr.com/post/72330692196/about-s218-this-is-everything-i-remember).
> 
> The title comes from what Harold said to John: "I'll grow old with her, Mr. Reese. Just from afar."
> 
> He didn't realise John's looking at him in exactly the same way.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

No one knows your smile like I do.

No one knows that your happiness comes from the littlest joys in life—the perfect cup of green tea, the right temperature for a walk in the park with Bear, the exact shade of purple for a pocket square that complements your tie.  It’s what I try to give you, everyday.

The way your eyes lit up with gratitude—touched and frankly impressed—when I gifted you that pocket square for one of your fake birthdays had been worth the long nights I scoured premier shops beyond my league and asked Zoe for help just to pinpoint that right shade of purple.

No one knows all your fake birthdays like I do, and that’s fine—it gives me so many excuses to find you a gift for each of them.  And it’s always such a challenge because you have such eccentric tastes—and ridiculously high standards—but then again, I’ve always enjoyed challenges.  That's why for your next fake birthday, I've bargained with Elias to teach me that pasta recipe you like so much.  There’s no better prize in the world than the trophy of your smile.

No one knows your tiredness like I do.

You hide it pretty well, even from the rest of the team.  But I hear it in the slightest strain in your voice, the hitch in your breath, the stiffness of your gait, the several nanoseconds of hesitation as you grip the desk before easing your way onto the chair.

No one knows the medications you need like I do, because I’ve talked to Megan about it, and it’s one of the secrets neither of us will ever reveal to anyone else.  She said something about doctor-patient confidentiality.  I said something about protecting the most private person I know.

You don’t ask questions when you see the pill bottles on your table appearing like magic.  You don’t ever call to thank me, because we both know it’ll be an acknowledgement that I know things you’ve never meant for me to know, and I know we’re both perfectly fine with pretending we’re more ignorant than we give each other credit for.  But the next morning, I’ll receive a package of new shoes, new shirts, new suits—all worth upwards of tens of thousands of dollars—and I always smile as I slip into the clothes, proudly wearing them as the armour my king has provided me.

No one knows your generosity like I do.

You told me once that I give away ninety percent of what you give me, and I don’t say that I’m only following your lead.  What I have, after all, is such an insignificant amount compared to the ninety percent of what you give away.  The homeless don’t have social security numbers, nor do undocumented immigrants, or refugees, and that little loophole in the programming you encoded in the Machine is something you have found a solution for.

It makes me sleep better at night, knowing that Joan will never go hungry again.  She doesn’t wonder about who takes care of all of them.  I know she’s smart enough to know that it’s the same person who’s taking care of me, now.

No one knows your pain like I do.

I still catch you staring at Grace’s picture on the screen when you think no one’s around to see you.  I don’t know why you do this to yourself.  I don’t know why I do this to myself either.  I don’t know why you bring yourself pain like this, and I don’t know why I keep watching you.

Perhaps it’s because I know what the pain of loneliness can drive a man into doing, and I want to be there to stop you, just in case, the way you stopped me.

You saved my life, after all.  

I just want you to know that you’re not alone.  You never will be, not while I’m here.  You may not be able to grow old with her. But if you let me, I will, with you.

No one knows your devotion like I do.

It’s in the roundabout ways you take care of Sameen—subtle enough so she won’t ever take it against you—because having skittered the edge of death yourself, you know that she’s not invulnerable, the way it sometimes gets into her head that she can always heal herself, because she has once been a doctor.  It’s in the way you watch over Taylor and Lee, without ever telling their parents, because despite the many duties you have already taken upon yourself, you added being these boys’ guardian angel and fairy godfather rolled into one, making sure that they’re safe even while their parents are out there working for the job you have us do.  While their parents are out there protecting the people they don’t know, you’re there in their place, silently protecting the people they love.

It’s in the way you still watch over Olivia and Will, sending memories wrapped in tokens to remind them of how Nathan has always been a good husband and father—and a good friend.  It’s in the way you do your best to preserve his memory as a good man to the people who has loved him the most.

Someday, I’d like to have that same honour, with you.  While I find it hard to imagine a future in which I live longer than you do, if fate decides on the cruelty of letting me live a life without you, then I want the rest of that short life to be lived in honour of you.  Because I want people to remember the good that you have done, even if they won’t remember you.

No one knows your forgiveness like I do.

You’re still afraid of Root, sometimes—abduction and torture is not something anyone can easily shake off their psyche—but I know that it’s not just for your own sake; having gone through it yourself, you do everything in your power to reel her in, so that no one else will have to be at the receiving end of that cruelty, not even Root herself.  You suffer through PTSD, and yet that’s exactly why you don’t want anyone else to suffer through it; you know pain, intimately, in all its forms—physical, emotional, mental, and you live with it all everyday—and while a lesser being with a weaker heart might have given into it, you possess a strength far beyond what a normal human being is capable of enduring, because for all the pain the world has given you, you do your very best not to give back that pain to anyone.

Root has always called your Machine a God.  But in my eyes, you’re the one with the superhuman heart, because no matter how much people have hurt you—no matter how much _I_ have hurt you—you still find it in yourself to care for them, to protect them.  

To love them.

No one knows your capacity for goodness and love like I do.

Because no one loves you like I do.

 

 


End file.
